Cigarettes and Expensive Liquor
by Ellers
Summary: Marauder-era JRS; Sirius is smiling, smug, and Remus thinks he must feel quite cultured, even if the table is covered in circular burns and unidentifiable stains.


**Cigarettes and Expensive Liquor**

**Author:** Jellibeana  
**Rating:** PG-13/R to be safe.  
**Summary:** Er...mild Remus/Sirius/James with slight focus on Remus/Sirius, taking place at a rather seedy club a year or so after Hogworts.   
**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all characters/situations within belong to JK Rowling, I'm just playing with them! : ))

Remus feels out of place.  
  
The lighting is dim in the club and his lungs are almost choking with the sickly scent of cigarette smoke --Sirius's favourite vice lies forgotten and still smouldering on the table, and Remus idly thinks perhaps he should put it out, considering the fire hazard.  
  
He tries to remember why he agreed to come here in the first place, but he can't, and blames it on the pulsating beat of some meaningless song thumping in his ears. That, and the way Sirius's teeth are gleaming in the hazy light, lips parting in a sly grin as he turns to talk to James – his best friend, counterpart.  
  
Remus's right index finger traces around the rim of his (barely touched) glass, full of an unknown brown liquid that he thinks is scotch, but isn't quite sure, because Sirius ordered the drinks and with Sirius one can never be quite sure of anything.  
  
James laughs at something Sirius has murmured – or more likely, slurred – into his ear, and Remus feels slightly nervous as they exchange identical devious grins, in the same way he used to as either of them announced another "brilliant" prank. These nerves are accompanied with a jolt of adrenalin.  
  
A waitress passes their booth – smooth red leather and scratched chrome -- and Sirius curls long, elegant fingers around her wrist. Remus turns his head, not particularly wanting to watch him whisper in her ear orders of new and exotic concoctions, all of which are undoubtedly more than he can afford. But Sirius never seems to pay for things, instead leaves with a grin and a wink. He is long gone by the time a pretty yet empty-headed waitress realises.  
  
Remus feel horribly exposed, to all these exhibitionist youths dancing themselves into a blur of colours across his eyes. Who with every turn of their beautiful faces seem to watch him, picking him apart as not one of them and he thinks that he could be, if he had the chance.  
  
He doesn't have much time to think, because the waitress is back with Sirius's order, which certainly looks exotic as it is accompanied by pieces of lime and what looks like salt.  
  
Sirius is smiling, smug, and Remus thinks he must feel quite cultured, even if the table is covered in circular burns and unidentifiable stains. And then Sirius is licking salt off the top of his hand, tongue flicking out against olive skin and Remus swallows, trying to look away but finding it impossible. Somehow he manages to notice that hazel eyes behind glasses are fixed on the same piece of skin.  
  
Remus doesn't quite register the utter oddity of Sirius sucking slowly on a piece of lime before downing a shot of a yellowy liquid. Then James is laughing, "What does it taste like?" and Sirius is grinning in that half- drunken way, leaning across to curl those infuriating fingers not around a wrist but the back of James's neck.  
  
And then, oh, and then the two are kissing and Remus feels his face (amongst other things) grow hot, and he instinctively glances to his right, where the blur of rainbow skins is still swaying to a new, obnoxiously saccharine tune.  
  
They have broken apart and James's lips are slightly parted and swollen. Much like Sirius's, who is now staring at Remus with a hungry expression, eyes dark and glassy as his tongue slides along his bottom lip.  
  
Before he can stop himself, Remus – feeling Sirius surely has to possess a magnetic field of his own -- is sliding across smooth red leather to sit much, much closer to the dark haired boy.  
  
Remus expects Sirius's lips to be clumsy, but he is a surprisingly good kisser for a (barely) nineteen year old drunk. His tongue is smooth and hot in Remus's mouth, and he tastes of cigarettes and exotic liquor.  
  
"Let's try this," Sirius says, words slurring together in a strangely endearing way, eyes hooded and lips curved in a smirk as he pulls away, fingers curling against the thin fabric of Remus's shirt.  
  
Remus's breath hitches in his throat, and he allows Sirius's hand to press him back against the smooth red leather of the booth. He doesn't object when the boy's (slightly fumbling) fingers push up his shirt. It seems like hours as the grains of salt fall onto his stomach, a century as Sirius leans down.  
  
And then it all catches up to him in a rush -- Sirius's tongue is sliding across his skin, flicking at the specks of white -- and Remus can't help but think that everyone in the club can see them, and is watching them, actors on a stage for the whole world to judge.  
  
But the sensation is gone as soon as it came, and Sirius is lifting a shot glass to his lips and tilting his head back –leaving visible the smooth expanse of vulnerable neck that Remus longs to mark with eager teeth (but won't, because that desire is far too feral for him to safely think of).  
  
James is licking salt off his own hand now, and Remus finds it almost (almost, but not quite) as fascinating as Sirius. When he is done, almost as drunk as Sirius, he slings an arm around his best friend's waist, leaning into him and pressing damp lips to his neck.  
  
Remus's eyes are fixed on the two, and his mind feels sluggish like the humid air inside the club, though he has only had one quick gulp – to prove that he could – of his drink all night.  
  
Once again, James and Sirius are wearing identical devious grins, and once again they are directed at Remus. James's fingers are almost unconsciously curling around the hem of Sirius's shirt, drawing it upwards and exposing a smooth curve of hip.  
  
And all of a sudden James is on his other side, and he certainly wasn't there before, but Remus isn't complaining because now both of them are pushing him against surface the booth. Sirius's tongue sweeps across his naval and Remus wonders if they will remember this tomorrow (or is it today?) morning, when they wake up sprawled across his couch with ear splitting headaches and sour breath.  
  
Sirius's head lifts – to add citrus tang and that same exotic liquor – at the same time James's dips, the strokes of his tongue shorter and less pronounced. Swallowing, Remus thinks he might just barely prefer Sirius's.  
  
Eyes dark and breathing heavy, Remus reaches to aquire his own salt and glass (he is sure if the other boys were sober, they would be infinently impressed, but they are definently not sober and more concerned with each other's mouths). He screws up his nose as he tips the glass, the liquid burning his throat.  
  
He realises he has forgotten the crucial citrus kick, but it doesn't matter because Sirius is leaning over and anyway, Remus can taste the lime on Sirius's tongue, mixed with smoke and something else that he thinks might be James.  
  
Sirius's hand slides up his shirt, another on the back of his head, and Remus feels himself being pushed tightly against the smooth red leather of the booth. James's fingers are drifting across his stomach. The pounding music in the far background becomes louder.  
  
And Remus feels right at home. 


End file.
